Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘She is that bad, Grace!’ said Sarah. ‘You might have forgotten what a pain in the arse she was that holiday in Angel Cay, but I haven’t. She’s poisonous and she always will be.’

  ‘Ah, the tolerance, the generosity of spirit; Sarah Brayfield, how I’ve missed you.’ Grace giggled.

  The two women clinked their cocktail glasses together. As part of her plan to build bridges she had burnt over the years, Grace had contacted Sarah straight after Freya’s wedding and was delighted when she had agreed to be her ‘date’ for the party. It was hard to believe that she hadn’t seen her since she had left for Thailand all those years ago. That, Grace now realised, was the real tragedy of Angel Cay. It had robbed her of her friends.

  ‘When are you coming back to London, Gracie?’ asked Sarah. ‘I’ve still not forgiven you for buggering off to Australia and marrying Che Guevara.’

  ‘You mean the father of my children,’ she said, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, him. And then you go off and lead the bloody good life in Ibiza. You know I never saw you as the Spanish Felicity Kendal. Come on, you’ve got to admit you miss London?’

  Grace pulled a face.

  ‘Well all right then, you must miss me at least? I promise I’ve cleaned up my act. I don’t even drink snakebite and black any more on a night out. It’s all elegant cocktails and good behaviour now.’

  ‘I should think so. I’d hate to think of you staggering around the High Court reeking of booze.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Seriously, though, we do have to get out on the pull,’ said Sarah. She had never married – another of the things she had inherited from her hippy parents was a distrust of the institution – and had only recently split up from her barrister boyfriend of three years. ‘I mean, when was the last time you had sex, Grace? If you tell me it’s last century I’m going have to batter you with this cocktail umbrella.’

  ‘It’s hard being a single mum.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ protested Grace. ‘I was at Glasgow airport the other day and this Ewan McGregor lookalike smiled at me at the baggage carousel. You should have seen his face when the kids came to help me with the luggage.’

  ‘Well I saw Julian Adler clocking you earlier.’

  ‘The artist?’ said Grace. ‘Don’t be silly. He was probably just looking for the loos or something.’

  ‘Well I think he’s pretty sexy in a “going to seed but knows it” kind of way. I bet he’d be filthy in bed too – sensitive fingers.’

  Grace laughed, but she couldn’t help scanning the crowd to see if she could spot the famous painter.

  ‘Have you seen Alex yet?’ she asked. ‘I thought I saw him through the crowd but then he disappeared.’

  Sarah looked at her wide-eyed. ‘Alex Doyle is here? So that’s why you’ve dragged me out to bloody Berkshire.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Well I hope not, because you do know he’s got a superstar girlfriend, don’t you? I suspect even you can’t compete with her.’

  Grace shook her head, surprised at how disappointed she felt at the news. ‘What superstar girlfriend?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatshername, Melissa Jackson. Hollywood sex-pot.’

  Grace almost snorted her drink down her nose. ‘What? He goes out with her?’

  Sarah tutted. ‘Don’t you ever read Heat?’

  ‘Not in rural Ibiza, no.’

  ‘Well, they’re LA’s hottest power couple; they’re practically joined at the hip.’

  Suddenly Grace felt the music getting louder, the crowd pressing in.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to the bar,’ she said. ‘Do you want anything? ’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ve just spotted that guy Iftaka, the one who owns this place. I’ll put in a good word for you!’

  ‘Oh God, don’t ...’ But Sarah was already tapping the stocky Arab on the shoulder.

  Blushing, Grace headed in the opposite direction, suddenly remembering why she preferred her quiet farmhouse in Ibiza.

  Alex had managed to give Melissa the slip. Not that he wanted to get rid of his fiancée exactly, but he wanted to tell Grace about their engagement privately, without Melissa making a big deal of it. He had no reason to break it to her gently, of course, but he felt she would appreciate hearing it from him, rather than reading about it in the papers.

  He found Grace in the orangery, sitting on a marble bench sipping a glass of champagne. ‘Guess who?’ he said, coming up behind her and covering her eyes with the palms of his hands.

  ‘Al Doyle. Rock and roll superstar,’ said Grace with her throaty chuckle. ‘I thought I saw you coming in.’

  ‘It’s still Alex to you, by the way,’ he said, sitting down next to her. ‘I haven’t turned into a complete knob quite yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you had.’ She smiled.

  ‘Here, give us a swig of your bubbly,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a throat like a badger.’

  She covered the glass with her hand. ‘Are you allowed?’

  Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Not you too. The person I came with is on a zero tolerance alcohol drive at the moment. Some health kick in time for the Oscars. It’s all mung beans and green algae drinks.’

  ‘The person you came with?’ She smiled. ‘Would that be your Hollywood girlfriend?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Melissa’s cool.’

  ‘She was terrific in that film about the lost puppy.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  ‘No! I’m the mother of two ten-year-olds,’ said Grace. ‘It kept them quiet for two hours on a flight to Parador.’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Grace,’ he said, nudging her. ‘Haven’t seen you in ages.’

  ‘Two years.’ She smiled slowly. ‘But in Hollywood years that’s probably about two minutes, right?’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ said Alex. ‘You know, because of the ... Well, I never thought you and Sasha were particularly close.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I could say the same thing about you.’

  ‘Ah, well Melissa didn’t actually tell me whose party it was until I got here.’

  ‘I came willingly,’ she said with a sheepish grin. ‘Actually, Sasha told me you were coming and I thought that unless I went to Wembley or somewhere, it was my best chance of seeing you.’

  ‘Hey!’ protested Alex. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ teased Grace. ‘Rock stars aren’t allowed to use the phone.’

  She looked around the orangery. ‘So do you have bodyguards lurking in the shrubbery?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ He smiled, a little sadly. ‘In England, people still think of me as that bloke from Year Zero.’

  ‘Come on, even I know you’ve had three number-one albums.’

  Alex laughed. ‘Hey, listen. This was all your idea. If you hadn’t told me to go solo in Ibiza, I’d be living in some bedsit in Catford by now remembering the days when about five people knew I was the guitarist in some band no one can remember the name of any more.’

  ‘Whatever happened to Year Zero anyway?’

  ‘Drugs, cabaret, fatherhood, in that order,’ said Alex. ‘Jez, the singer, is still out there searching for his big break, although he’s been dropped by his record company and I hear he’s got badly into drugs, not that I’m one to talk. Gav is playing in a show band on the cruise ships and having the time of his life by all accounts. And Pete has gone into teaching and become the proud father to a baby girl called Isabelle. He’s asked me to be godfather at her christening, would you believe?’

  ‘Heavens,’ laughed Grace. ‘I guess Cool Britannia really is well and truly over.’

  Alex shifted on the cold bench slightly. He knew he should tell her about the engagement, but it didn’t seem like the right moment.

  ‘So what about you?’ he asked, playing for time. ‘You still in Ibiza? I must come out
and see you again, if the offer’s open of course. I loved it out there.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of coming home, actually,’ she said, looking at her hands. ‘Not full time, just term-time, if I can get Joe and Liv into good schools over here. I want them to have the best of both worlds, and it would be good if they could spend more time with my mum, too.’

  ‘You should come back,’ said Alex. ‘I think England agrees with you; you seem back to your old self. Not that there was anything wrong with you in Ibiza,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Well it will give me the chance to give my photography a proper crack. There isn’t much call for it in Ibiza beyond shooting another line of olive trees for Condé Nast Traveller.’

  ‘Hey, why don’t you take my picture?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘No, I mean do my album sleeve.’

  She started laughing.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Alex.‘Those portraits at your house were amazing and my label have been talking about doing something black and white, gritty. They want me to be taken a bit more seriously.’

  ‘As opposed to being a teenybopper adored by millions of teenage girls? Besides, you’re too pretty to look gritty.’

  ‘Well, the girls might not be so interested in me when I’m married.’

  He watched as Grace’s smile slipped temporarily.

  ‘Married?’ she said quietly.

  Alex felt his neck flush with embarrassment. ‘I proposed to Melissa tonight.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said warmly, clasping his hand. ‘That’s fantastic news.’

  Alex surprised himself by feeling disappointment at her reaction. What did you expect? he thought angrily. That she would break down and weep?

  ‘I mean we’ve only been going out five months; in fact it all kind of happened by accident,’ he said nervously.

  ‘You proposed by accident?’

  ‘Don’t ask. But it feels like the right thing to do, you know? She’s good for me. Even the booze ban, and the mung beans and shit. It’s good for me. Everyone needs someone who’s good for them.’

  She sighed. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘No men on the horizon for you, then?’

  He’d already looked at her left hand, but her wedding ring was still on her right hand as it had been in Ibiza and there were no new rings there. With a sinking feeling, Alex realised he hadn’t even thought of getting a ring for Melissa. Must get down to De Beers tomorrow first thing, he reminded himself.

  ‘Well, I met Julian Adler at the bar,’ said Grace. ‘He invited me to an exhibition at the White Cube. Does that count as going to see his etchings?’

  ‘Are you going to go?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Well if you do, wear that dress,’ he said, nodding at her inky-blue cocktail dress. ‘You look lovely in it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ said Alex quickly, hoping he hadn’t said anything stupid or egotistical.

  ‘No, no, it’s just I’ve got to get back to London. The kids are with a friend and I said I’d be back by midnight.’

  Alex stood up and offered his hand. ‘Come on then, Cinderella,’ he said, leading her back towards the party. ‘Let me give you my cell number. And let’s stay in touch this time, shall we?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t want to miss out on a big Hollywood wedding.’

  ‘It’s going to be the party of the century!’ he cried and she giggled.

  ‘No mung beans, though.’

  ‘No, no mung beans. Maybe that’s what I’ll call the album.’

  He gave her his best smile, but when she turned to walk away, he could feel it slowly slipping from his face. And he stood there, not wanting to go back to the party, wondering why he felt so sad.

  44

  When she woke up the next morning, Sasha was disappointed to find she didn’t feel any different, even if it was her thirtieth birthday. For many people she supposed three-zero was a big milestone, the end of youth or something equally traumatic, but she had felt grown up for a long time. She had her own multi-million-pound company and her picture was in glossy magazines all around the world. People knew who Sasha Sinclair was; in fact they wanted to be her. Still, she felt disappointed. Unfulfilled. But why? She had everything she could ever want. Lazily stretching her arms out, she realised what it was: there was no one next to her. She was alone.

  Her bedside phone rang and she snatched it up.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said a voice.

  ‘Good morning, Robert,’ she replied, smiling as she swung her legs out of bed and scrunched her toes in the deep cream carpet. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on Sloane Street, heading your way.’

  Her heart gave a little jump; he was almost there. ‘Just give me five minutes,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  She leapt in the shower, taking care not to wet her blow-dried hair, then pulled on the outfit she had carefully selected the previous afternoon before leaving for the party. Grabbing her leather overnight bag, she blew the apartment a kiss and ran out of the door. She knew she shouldn’t be running down the steps, giddy with excitement that a man was coming to take her on a romantic day out. She was Sasha Sinclair, ball-breaking businesswoman and style icon. She didn’t chase after men. And yet here she was, skipping across the road, swinging her bag, her day brightened by the man sitting in a silver 1960s Aston Martin. Remember, she thought. You’re calling the shots now.

  ‘Nice car, mister,’ she said, climbing inside.

  ‘Only forty of these ever made,’ said Robert proudly. ‘I like to take her out on special occasions.’

  She touched his leg gently; he took his left hand off the steering wheel and squeezed her fingers.

  God, what am I doing, falling head over heels with a married man? she thought to herself. She was thirty, after all. She didn’t want to wake up alone every morning. Not now, she scolded herself. Just enjoy your birthday.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she asked.

  He flashed her a smile. ‘The coast.’

  ‘I thought you were strictly a Cote d’Azur man.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘Today it’s all about long pebbly beaches, ice cream and crabbing.’

  ‘Crabbing?’ She laughed. ‘What do you know about crabbing?’

  ‘I wasn’t always an international playboy, you know,’ he said. ‘I went on horrible family seaside outings like everyone else.’

  ‘You’ll be taking me on a donkey ride next.’ She grinned.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got plans for that too,’ he said with a wolfish smile.

  On the open roads of Hampshire, Sasha wound the window down and let the breeze bring in the aromas of grass, flowers and wood smoke. It was a bright winter’s day and the sky was the soft blue of a robin’s egg. She wanted every weekend to be like this, not stolen afternoons in hotels. She wanted to wake up with him and kiss him in the street and sit on the sofa listening to music while he massaged her feet. But for now, on this lovely afternoon, all she wanted was what she had: Robert and her together, an adventure in front of them.

  ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’m really . . .’

  She never got to finish her sentence. At that moment, time seemed to slow and she could feel herself moving but could do nothing about it, as if she was floating above, tied to the windscreen like a child’s balloon. She watched helplessly as the front of the car turned abruptly, swerving off the road, Robert desperately wrestling with the wheel. She could see the tension in his arms, the tendons standing out, the sudden left and right movements of his hands as they mounted an embankment. She saw the line of trees looming in front of them. And then she saw nothing.

  When her eyes opened, blinking at the harsh fluorescent light, she was looking up at chipped polystyrene ceiling tiles. She felt a flutter of fear as she immediately realised she was in a hospital bed. She tried to move her arms, to sit up, but she felt pain in her chest and h
er head and her legs – everywhere.

  ‘Don’t try and move, darling.’ She turned her head slightly to see her mother leaning over her, stroking her head. Her first thought was how she hated Carole seeing her like this.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Sasha weakly. ‘The car . . .’